


Where the Bedbugs Bite

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-17
Updated: 2006-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are pretty boys and scary apartments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Bedbugs Bite

The door sticks when the landlord tries to open it. He grins at you, teeth flashing yellow. "You gotta shove and then lean forward, that'll do the trick."

Brad nods his head. The door finally gets unstuck and swings forward noisily. You step in gingerly after the both of them. Look around. Small. Dirty. Smells like someone died. The walls could be brown, but they're most probably white.

Broken furniture; you jump back as what seems to be a rat scurries under a couch. Trick of the light, maybe.

The only window that isn't boarded shut is in the back of the bedroom. Shitty view of another city block, as ugly as this one is. You follow them into the room, stay away from the window.

"Is that a bloodstain?" Brad says.

Vague shrug. "Don't know. Maybe. Nobody died here though, not for as long as I've been here."

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough."

You step closer to Brad. Dark red blotch on gray concrete in the tiny bedroom. Reminds you of the map of Alaska. Chopped off at Canada. Used to have that map up in your bedroom. Where you would go one day. Alaska was the furthest place you could think to go from Phoenix. LA isn't nearly far enough. It'll do.

The pipes screech when Brad turns on the tap. Narrowly avoids muddy brown spray of sludge from it.

Expected. All of it. Like one of those movies. Dirt poor musician/actor/runaway goes apartment hunting on a limited budget.

Dirt and grime thick enough to bathe in.

Check.

Rodents and other scary animals afoot.

Check.

The unidentified stain on the floor holding secrets of possible past acts of violence committed.

Check.

Dirty, undrinkable water from rusted pipes.

Check.

"Don't you have anything on a lower level?" you ask.

He looks at you like he doesn't expect you to be able to speak. Then he says, "We're on the third floor."

It's still three stories too high.

"It's...not bad," Brad says. Meaning, it's all we can afford at the moment. He glances at you for a moment before turning to the landlord. "We'll take it."

"First and last months rent. No pets, no loud parties, pay up on time."

Brad gives him the money and takes a set of keys from him. Then he's gone.

You kick weakly at a mattress. It skids across the floor, but nothing crawls out of it.

Brad sighs, slightly. "It's only temporary, Chaz. I promise. Soon as w-"

"It's okay. I've lived in worse."

*

Scrub, wash, scour. The walls are a pale shade of beige. Eggshell, maybe. Have to tell Brad what to do. Not used to cleaning. Had a mom. You met her once. Unfortunate timing, she dropped by Mike's apartment to pass him some clothes and caught the two of you going into the back alley. For some reason decided to follow. Hey mom, have you met Chester? Chester, who'll shake your hand after he gets off his knees.

Nice enough lady, once she got over the embarrassment. Invited you over for dinner with the family.

Then she found out you were married.

Doesn't approve, but she loves her son.

"You should just call her then, ask her to help you with everything," you snap one day. He mumbles something about venturing out on his own and learning to be independent. You don't say that doesn't make him any less of a momma's boy.

He calls the guys instead. Mike stands around and gives orders. Everyone more or less follows except for Joe, who stares at the might-be-might-not-be bloodstain for a full minute before retreating to the window and polishing it all day.

Want to tell him not to bother, that you're getting curtains so you don't have to look outside, but Joe is just that little bit scary. The window is spit-shiny by the time he's done.

Dave helps with the pipes. "Philosophy with a minor in plumbing," he says ruefully. He shrugs at your look. "Had an apartment just like this once. Amazing the things you're willing to learn to get clean water." He holds up a glass of clear liquid triumphantly.

Dave asks you to hang with them after recording. Watch a movie. Wants to be friends. You like him.

This was before you started fucking his friend. Now he waits for Brad, but Brad never wants to go anywhere but back to the apartment.

You know they all think it's because of you, and you don't bother to correct them.

*

The bed is the first thing you buy. It's huge, and it maxes out Brad's credit card, and after it goes into the bedroom nothing else fits in there, but you both need space to sleep. The nicest bed you've ever slept in, except when the record company put you up for the night when you flew over to try out.

Black sheets, another indulgence. First night you officially move in, he duckwalks you into the bedroom, pulling his clothes, your clothes, off impatiently. Hot hands on your skin, burning you up. You're not ready when he shoves in, and you cry, "Stop." But he never stops, and you're always grateful for that.

Sweat cools on your body afterwards; you shiver slightly. Can hear him breathing, slow and steady, next to you. Sleeps so well. You never sleep well in new places.

Goosebumps across your skin, not from the cold. You can see the stain, edge peeking out from under the bed. Couldn't get rid of it. Tried everything that was supposed to work. Everything you could afford. Sodium peroxide powder layered over the wet surface. Sprinkle with water. Then wash and scrub. Nothing. Two tries later, you gave up.

Your old man told you that blood never washes off. Trace elements, always visible under the microscope. The victims always leave their mark behind. "So if you're gonna kill anyone, don't do it in your home. Because we will catch you." Wisdom from the law enforcement agent in the family. Always giving you advice, in lieu of actual protection, especially in the time when it would have mattered.

*

Pass by crime scenes on the road and he always had to pull over to check it out. Flash his badge, inquire. "What happened here? Anything I can do to help?" Tell the son to stay in the car, for his own protection.

One time you didn't, followed him past the yellow police tape. No one stopped you.

She looked like she could have been sleeping, if not for the gaping wound in her stomach and the blood pooled around her. A sea of ruby red. Panties somewhere at her ankles, skirt hiked up high on her waist. Everybody milling around, taking pictures. Talking. Laughing.

You recognized one voice, cast about until you saw him, gesturing wildly in amusement to a uniformed cop. The whole world flashing red and blue.

Stumbled back to the car, where you threw up against the side of the road.

*

Stumbled back to your room, after everything was over and he was ready to leave. Mixed valium with forty-proof until you passed out.

*

He never noticed you were wasted half the time.

*

He never noticed a lot of things.

*

Asked him later, "Did they ever catch the person that killed that girl." He shrugged, said that she was a prostitute, probably got murdered by some john. Waste of valuable police time to investigate fully. Whores don't count.

*

"You didn't sleep last night," Brad says.

You stare at his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror, then at yours. Hollow eyes, sallow complexion. Blink, and you're an old man, wrinkles lining your face like raw sandpaper. Blink again, and you're just you.

Shrug slightly and put your toothbrush in your mouth. Up and down. One tooth at a time, just like your mother taught you. Important to have good teeth. Could fill your body with every poison imaginable, but one has to take care of one's teeth. Tobacco leads to gum decay. Paranoid. Check your gums daily. Still can't quit. Cocaine was hard enough. The least of all your vices.

Gargle, spit. You think he's gone away, but when you look up he's right behind you. Wraps one arm under your chest and rests his head on your shoulder. "We're going to be late," he murmurs into your neck.

"We're not late," you reply, but you're already gripping both sides of the basin with your fingers. Spread your legs apart, bend your head down. "Chestero...oh god," he breathes as he slams his hips up hard. You squeeze your eyes shut. White heat under your skin, red spots beneath your eyes. "Chester..." he says again, hoarsely, and his other arm wraps around your throat, almost choking you.

You come. Splatter over white porcelain, baby blue floor tiles. He gets there not a minute later, grunting and whispering your name. Don't say anything when the arm squeezes tight, cutting off your air supply. Lets go before you need to breathe, pulling you down, boneless to the floor. He laughs then, after he catches his breath. "Mike is so going to fucking kill us."

*

Make an excuse, which Mike doesn't buy. Just says, "Whatever. Chaz, you h-"

"Chester," you correct him automatically.

He gaze focuses sharply on you. "Are you okay? Your throat sounds a little hoarse. Not coming down with anything, are you?"

"No." You clear your throat, ignore the pain it causes to swallow. Wore a turtleneck. He can't see the bruises. "I'm fine. Be fine. Besides, all I need to do today is scream, right?"

"Yeah." He grins suddenly, the Mike Shinoda special smile. Guaranteed to disarm. You can't help but flash a smile in return.

Brad asks later, concerned. "What's wrong with your throat?" You shake your head and turn away, but he catches your arm. Invasive fingers on your neck, exposing bruised skin.

"What the- how did that happen?" He frowns and slides his hand softly across black and blue. You say nothing. Wait for the realization to hit, and his frown to deepen. "Huh," he says. Sounds mildly surprised. Hugs you briefly, fiercely, and whispers, "Sorry," into your ear.

*

You call Sam from a payphone because the phone in the apartment hasn't been connected yet. Brad leans against the car outside, smoking. Picking up some of your bad habits. Have him drinking, soon.

Phone rings and rings, and you want to hang up, but then the line connects. Slightly breathless, "Hello?"

"Hey," you say. Awkward. Always awkward, before she fills in the blank spaces.

"Chaz!" Sounds so happy to hear from you. Your hand hovers. Bad connection, you could say later. She chatters on, and you lower your hand. Home. Family. Friends. The dogs miss you. So does she. Asks you to call your father. You say you will, but you both know you won't. "He loves you, Chaz. Wants to know if you're okay."

"Tell him...tell him I'm fine. Surviving."

She keeps on trying. Wants you to talk to him. Says he deserves to know. She doesn't understand. Never will.

You say, "No, don't come down here, not yet, not until we're making at least some money," when she inquires. "Sorry," you add, as she peters off in disappointment. "Soon, I promise."

"It's all right. I understand."

"I love you, Sam."

*

It starts to rain as you leave, hard droplets that hit your head like miniature torpedoes. Brad retreats inside the car, and you hurry to join him. Soaked by the time you heave yourself into the passenger seat. Shake your head, dog-like, spraying water everywhere.

Brad grins indulgently at you. Brushes damp hair back from your face and his kiss is hot and wet and demanding, cleansing you of your sins. When he pulls back his face is flushed red and his eyes are alight. "Come on," he says. "Let's go home."

*

The curtain rods won't stay up. Every morning, without fail, they're down on the floor, on top of the green and blue curtains that Dave gave to you. Every night, before you go to sleep, you put them up again. Brad doesn't say anything. He's afraid of spiders. You get to be afraid of heights.

Tells you once, "When I was a kid, I had a teddy bear, and somehow a spider crawled into it, and when I picked the bear up, fucking thing bit me. They're nasty creatures. Nasty." He shudders, and you have to hide your smile. He notices though, and scowls. "Not funny. You'd be scared too, your favorite toy bit you."

"I'm sure I would." He waits, expectantly, for the explanation for your fear of heights. You keep silent. Not afraid of heights. Afraid to look down, mostly. The temptation to jump is always too strong. You couldn't jump out of this window if you tried, the sill is painted shut. Staring out and down is bad enough though. The stairs leading to the roof are right outside.

"We should just hammer the curtains themselves into the wall," Brad suggests one day. They don't fall down after that; he doesn't comment on why you hammered the curtains in all the way around.

The building across stole a lot of the sun, but now there's practically none coming through. You don't mind. Like the dark. Don't spend much time in the apartment anyway, not since the recording went into full swing.

*

Out at six am. Mike's apartment. Studio. Pro tools sucks, but Brad is surprisingly patient. Figure it out eventually, well enough to work unsupervised at least. Hours and hours of time spent. Singing until you can't anymore. Lozenges. Gargles. Anything to keep the throat smooth. Some exec says, "You should go for singing lessons. Maybe train your voice so you won't strain it too much."

"You guys gonna fucking pay for it? Thought so."

*

Crawl back to the apartment at two, three am. Collapse into bed, but neither of you can sleep until you fuck. Hard, every night. Almost angry hard. Brad pushes you down on the mattress and twists your wrists with his hands until they bruise. New marks over old ones. Lock your legs around his waist and he strains, and shudders, and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh at the base of your neck.

You snarl at everyone who comments on your long sleeved shirts in such hot weather.

Eventually they stop.

*

Three hours of sleep a night. Brad gets that. Survives on coffee and cigarettes. You get none. Survive on the same. He never notices again that you don't sleep.

Too exhausted. Sleep so deep he barely breathes, and you put your ear to his chest more than once every night to check if he's still alive.

Then you go back to staring at the stain. Think it's grown larger, but that's not possible.

*

Mike doesn't talk directly to you anymore, even though you spend the most time together, writing lyrics. Rejects half the things you write, or returns them back marked with red ink Too dark. Too morbid. Too fucked up for delicate pre-pubescent years. "What the fuck are we going for here, Mike?" you say.

He flushes and stares at his music sheet. "Lets try something that'll not give people nightmares, shall we?"

"Yeah. Whatever." Not your band, anyway.

*

"I had a dream," Brad says one day over breakfast. Cornflakes and milk. He wolfs it down, and you play with your own bowl. Press the flakes up against the sides, watch as they dry.

Stopped eating breakfast because everything you eat before noon comes back up nowadays.

"What kind of a dream?"

His brow furrows. "I was on the roof. I think I jumped, only I had wings so I flew away instead of falling. It was kinda surreal."

"I used to have that very same dream."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

In your dreams, you always hit the ground.

*

Sometimes you hear a tap drip, slowly. Walk around the entire apartment looking for a leaky pipe after you check the bathroom and the kitchen. Tight. Can't find it anywhere. Drives you crazy. Round and round you go. Your feet padding across the floor make a louder sound than the drip, but it's in your head. Caught there, and it's impossible to get rid of it.

Headphones eventually solve the problem, but it doesn't help you sleep any better. Stare up at the cracks in the ceiling listening to Madonna sing about losing her virginity.

You can't remember losing yours. Party you weren't even invited to. Figure it's probably for the best, considering the girl you woke up next to the next morning refused to even look at you ever again. "I was on ether and I lost my virginity when I was fifteen so it's all a blur," you say whenever you're asked, which isn't often. You don't mention him. He doesn't count. You make him not count.

*

Brad says one day, narrows his eyes at you, "You look like hell. How much weight have you lost."

"You don't look so hot yourself, Bradford."

He rubs his eyes wearily. "Yeah. I know. Tired. Just waiting for this fucking thing to be over. Man, I thought this would be fun."

"What, did Mike tell you that?"

Sharp snort. "Mike. Mike's having a blast. So's Joe. We're the only ones suffering here. Fuck. I need to take start taking vitamins or something. Get me through the day. Maybe an iron supplement or just an all round multi-vit."

Multi-vitamins. Sure. Or one could just do it the old fashioned way. Uppers and downers and everything in between in a myriad of rainbow colors. Pink pills for breakfast, followed by red striped white ones for lunch. Dinner would be those pretty little blue ones chased by green hued capsules. Drug dealers at every corner from Phoenix to LA are the same person.

Not that you do that kind of shit anymore. "Multi-vitamins," you say to Brad, in all seriousness. "Okay. We can drop by the drugstore later." Someone told you once amphetamines used to be legal, back in the forties when they first came out. Available over the counter for everything from obesity to depression.

Shame, that someone used to say. Wish I'd lived back then.

You're pretty sure he's dead. OD'ed.

*

Then it's over. Recording and re-recording and pushing for the deadline and all that stress until your head wants to burst open and then it's over. Done. Put to bed. Dropping soon soon soon, and there's publicity to be done and a shitload of other stuff, but take a break.

A month. Advance money. Take a vacation. That's it.

Anticlimax.

Don't want to go anywhere. Brad suggests Tahiti, or maybe even just Santa Monica, because it wasn't that much money and there's rent to pay. You refuse, adamantly, and eventually he gives up.

All you wish to do is sleep. You think after the record is over, after the stress is done with, you'll be able to do so. Never had problems sleeping before, not unless you were on something.

*

The bed is soft, and inviting as usual, but still. You've memorized every crack in the ceiling. The blob in the corner that looks like a mutilated sailboat topped with a hugely disproportionate umbrella. The dark lines that remind you of some constellation. Orion. Pointed them out to Brad once, but he couldn't see.

Brad's a Sagittarius. You would have checked to see if Sagittarius was a sign compatible with Pisces, but decided you didn't want to know in case not.

All bullshit anyway, Brad says often. You don't snap, therefore I tattooed bullshit on my arm. That's permanent, that ink. Not done on a goddamn whim.

He shifts next to you and sighs softly, his body pale and glowing by the night light that you leave on sometimes. Covers casually thrown over his legs. Black silk on white skin.

Feel your cock harden, but you don't want to wake him. Spit, right hand. Wrap around slick flesh. Familiar rhythm, and after a while you close your eyes. Barely notice when the bed shifts and a warm, wet tongue slides over your shaft. You drop your arm to the side, keep your eyes closed.

When he fucks you afterwards, you realize it's the third time tonight.

*

You try to call home one morning, but the line is dead. You hold the receiver in your hand and tell Brad, "The phone's not working."

He doesn't remove his gaze from the newspaper he's reading. "I'll call the phone company later and ask them what's wrong."

"How," you ask. "The phone is. not. working."

"Payphone, right? Don't get your panties in a bunch, Chaz."

You slam the hard plastic down into its cradle.

*

He never leaves the apartment to make that phone call.

Stretches one arm out to you instead, and you walk over and sink down in front of him, settle between his legs. The couch isn't leather, but it smells rancid. Vaguely you remember day after day of fucking on it in hot, sweaty weather. You lick dry lips and help him to unzip his pants.

Take him into your mouth, settle into a rhythm. Suck and slide. Always been good at this. Something to be proud of, maybe they could carve it on your gravestone.

Lose concentration, and you gag. Brad gasps, shimmies, when your teeth graze sensitive skin. Pull back and mumble, "Sorry." He smiles at you and plants a soft kiss on your forehead, threads long, pale fingers through your hair. You move forward once more, start again.

Those fingers never clench, never demand.

*

There's no food in the fridge. Nothing that isn't expired. You throw everything away, leave it sparkling and empty. Least there's water. Wander back into the living room, and Brad is still stretched out on the couch. Jerking off slowly, lazily.

Ten minutes ago. Maybe five. You put down the glass of water on a table. Tug down your jeans.

*

Your head hurts, constantly. Think it might be dehydration. Lick the sweat pooled on the small of Brad's back. Makes you thirstier. You don't want to leave the bed. The stain almost covers the entire floor now. Darker now, deep red. Almost wet. You point it out to Brad, and his eyes widen in horror. He opens his mouth to say something, but you need to kiss him then, so his words get swallowed.

*

Need to drink something. Desperately. Know there's still water, can hear the dripping constantly now. The batteries on the headphones died a while back, but it's okay, because Brad doesn't sleep anymore now either. "Can you hear it," you whisper to him.

He nods his head, or moves it slightly. "Yeah. Go turn it off."

"Okay."

"No. Don't. Stay with me."

You hadn't budged an inch, anyway.

*

There's something wrong there's something wrong there's something wrong

*

You don't know what.

*

Your hand trails across the ground accidentally, comes back red and wet. You don't have the energy to be horrified.

"Wanna-"

"Yeah."

*

The ceiling is dripping. That's where the sound came from all along.

Not water.

*

He doesn't separate his body from yours anymore. You think he should weigh more, that it should crush you after pressing down on you for so long, but he's as light as a feather.

Most times, he's in you.

*

You stare at the ceiling, and you can't see the constellation anymore. Not even the ship. The ceiling is black. The whole room is black. Only Brad is color, only Brad is life, and you cling to him tightly.

*

"There's something wrong," he says one day.

"I know." You want to cry, but there's not enough moisture in your body.

"We have to do something. We have to..."

"I know." But you tell him then, why you're afraid of heights. How you almost jumped once, and someone pulled you back. That you did it in a party full of people, stood on a balcony and everyone thought you were wasted but oddly enough, for once you weren't.

You say to him, "I think we're falling. I think we fell." And that's when he starts to cry, huge heaving sobs with no tears to prove they were real.

*

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Brad sings to you. Brad can't sing, but he sings to you. Itsy bitsy spider climbs up the water spout. Nursery rhyme. Brad hates spiders. You remember that at least.

Down came the rain.

Down came the rain.

Bang.

*

You drift. Everything is gray and white, gray and white.

Sometimes you hear voices. Recognize them, even. Tight with concern. Doctors' voices. Clipped and professional. A warm, feminine voice to go with soft hands. Nurse.

Keep waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel, but it never comes. Bastards. Everyone lies. Doctors are too good at their jobs. Where's the motherfucking choice when they're there to bring you back every damned time.

When you stop drifting Joe is the one that's there. He says, "Can't explain...previous owner...ghosts...Dave...called..." Says more, but that's all you remember. Ghosts.

The too cheap apartment that happens to be haunted.

Check.

Suicidal, fucked up, twenty-one year old guy dragging his boyfriend down with him.

Check.

"How's Brad,' you ask.

"He's fine," Joe replies awkwardly. "Um, Sam is here. We had to call her. Tried to...sorry."

Sorry. Everyone is always sorry in the end.


End file.
